Court and Spark
by Rachel Greenwood
Summary: A brief oneshot about a night in Jack and Rose's life ten years after Titanic.


_July 1922_

The crowd was too large for the room. It was the opening night party, and although it was a small theatre, there was the feeling of a hit in the air. A big hit, the kind that could put the theatre and everyone involved over the top. To Rose, it seemed as though flashbulbs were going off all around her. She ignored the reporters, walking past their questions, and she ignored the elated comments of her friends. A dull ache settled behind her eyes; more than anything, she just wanted to go home.

She hadn't eaten since before the performance; she never ate before a show. Her nerves were too raw. Her stomach rumbled in protest. She hadn't bothered to dismantle the complex style her hair had been twisted into. It was such a hot night; why not just leave it off her neck? Her face scrubbed clean of the heavy stage make-up looked, as more than one observer remarked, "as fresh as a girl's." It was the sort of observation that made her laugh. At 27, she hardly considered herself old, and the incredulity some people showed at her appearance could only be laughed at. What was she supposed to look like?

Finally, she spotted him across the room. He was talking excitedly to a small group; his blue eyes were bright, and his smile was contagious. For a moment, she just watched him. The women in the group all had their eyes firmly fixed on him. Their adoration was almost palpable; it really didn't matter what he said. They were happy just to look at him. Rose smiled, amused by his obliviousness. He shrugged at mentions of his beauty and his way with people. "I just want to create something beautiful," he'd said once when she had brought it up. "It doesn't matter if I am."

"You already have."

He'd shaken his head. "No," he said. "I have but, it's not…I'm not there yet. There's something more I should be doing—something deeper. I haven't gone far enough, you know?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question. She did know. The shared struggle to express something—themselves?—to create, to push themselves further had only deepened their bond.

"Don't you ever get tired of using me as a model?" she'd asked, a few months into their relationship.

"Do you want me to go find another one?' he replied jokingly.

"No…I don't know. Do you want to?"

"It wouldn't be the same," he said.

"Don't artists like to cast off old muses for new ones?" she said, teasing slightly. "They get bored if they don't, or they paint landscapes."

Jack looked up and met her eyes. "You're not my muse," he said. Before she could respond he went on. "You're more than that. I know what I'm capable of because of you. You create the pictures _with_ me."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Yeah. You aren't just a beautiful woman I like to draw." He grinned. "Those are pretty easy to find, but you…"

"I understand."

He reached for her as she approached. His arm settled around her waist, and she let herself lean against him. She smiled in response to the greetings offered and murmured a reply. The pain in her head was spreading; so what if they thought she was aloof? They would talk no matter what she did or didn't do. She and Jack laughed at or ignored the gossip and attempts to come between them. There were always stories, always someone vying for attention and affection from one of them.

Jack gave her a reassuring squeeze. She sighed with relief as he said good night and began leading her toward the door. "You feel alright?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"It's just a headache."

"Hungry?"

"Famished."

…

The house was small, and yet it was almost too big for them. The attic was Jack's studio. There were windows on every side, and the light was perfect. The second bedroom was Rose's to do whatever she liked with. In the year they had lived there, it had evolved into a reading, writing, and rehearsing area. Jack's room was neat. The finished projects were carefully arranged. The supplies all had their own drawer and space within it. He always cleaned and put away everything when he finished for the day. Rose's room always looked like a gust of wind had just hit it. Books were stacked precariously on the floor, on shelves, and on the desk. Pens, scripts, and papers were everywhere. There was also a third bedroom—although it was almost too small to be called that—with no real purpose. They didn't have enough things for a storage area. Their friends joked that it was for the baby they would soon have, but they just shook their heads. No. Not now, they said. Not yet. They still wanted to be alone together.

Jack kissed her hair. "Go lie down," he said. "I'll make some dinner."

"Alright."

The air in their bedroom was hot and stale. She threw open the windows, letting in an only slightly cooler breeze. It was fresh air, at least. She slipped out of her clothes, tossing them into a nearby chair. She bent her head back and stretched. The pain was in her neck and shoulders as well now. She grabbed a blue slip off the bedpost and pulled it on. It was short and made of a soft, sheer fabric. Rose let herself fall onto the bed. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through the pain.

…..

She was asleep when he came in. The moonlight on her skin seemed to make her glow. He sat down next to her, placing two steaming bowls on the bedside table. Shaking her lightly, he said, "Ready to eat?"

"Mmhmm," she murmured sleepily. "You're finished already?" She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The brief nap had done little to ease the pain. "And you brought dinner in here?"

"I thought you'd be more comfortable if we ate in here," he replied, handing her a bowl. She breathed in the scent of crawfish etouffee. "Thank you," she said. Without another word, she began eating, relishing the rich flavors. They shared the cooking; they shared all of the chores. But Rose had always enjoyed the meals Jack prepared more. They weren't more complicated than what she made; their cooking skills were about equal. It could have been simply that he took the time to do it. "You didn't have to make a new pot," she said when her bowl was empty. She set it on the table and leaned back with a contented sigh. At least her stomach was full.

"I wanted to," he said. "And we needed to eat the crawfish soon."

"How did we eat before we came here?" she asked, closing her eyes. Even the dim light from the moon was too much. She tried to focus her breathing. Jack's voice was low in her ear. "Turn over," he whispered. She rolled onto her stomach.

He began slowly kneading her shoulders with his thumbs. "Relax," he said softly. She let out her breath. "I can't," she said into the pillow. Silently, he moved his hands across her, massaging the tense muscles and untangling the knots.

"Mmm…" Rose groaned appreciatively as he moved up her neck and to her head. Carefully, he pulled the pins from her hair. He ran his fingers through her curls. Bobbed hair was the new fashion, but her hair was still long. He wondered if she kept it that way for him. Did she secretly want it short? It was no secret how much he loved her curls. He heard himself ask, "Do you want to cut your hair?"

She raised her head slightly. "What?"

He began brushing her hair, using long, careful strokes. "Do you want to cut your hair?" he repeated. "Bob it. You know."

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Why are you asking?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Just wondered."

She thought for a moment. "I like it this way," she said. "It's me." She closed her eyes and sank against the pillow again. "Although, maybe tomorrow I'll go to the barbershop," she added.

"Really?"

She laughed. "No."

Rose didn't remember falling asleep. She was vaguely aware of Jack moving around the room and of him lying down next to her. When she woke up, his arm was curled around her, his face pressed against her neck. He offered no protest as she rolled onto her back. She wrapped her arms around him, placing his head on her shoulder. It was too hot to sleep like this; a thin layer of sweat glued them together. But she knew if she untangled herself and rolled away, they would end up entwined again. Memories fluttered through her mind. She smiled to herself as conversations replayed. When had that one happened? Five years ago? Had they really only been together ten years? It felt as though he had always been there, as though there had always been a Jack to talk to, to laugh with, to cry on, to grope for in the dark.

"You clutch me like a teddy bear," she had said once, laughing, as he hugged her to him.

"I never had one," he said. "I'm making up for it."

"You didn't? Really?"

"Really."

"Neither did I," she said.

"I bet you had better toys," he replied. "You probably had a whole roomful."

"I had dolls. Beautiful, expensive, untouchable porcelain dolls," she said. "They just sat there, hard and cold in their lovely dresses." She paused. "Like my mother," she added quietly. "Like all of the women she knew." Jack studied her face as she moved further into herself. "They didn't start out that way," she said, turning to look at him.

"No," he agreed. "They didn't."

Sometimes, the fear that she would become just like her mother would come over her. It enveloped her like a thick cloud, the fear that she would choose security over freedom, that she would lose herself in pleasing others, that she would turn hard and cold. "Clutch me all you want," she said. His arms were like a strong blanket around her, offering shelter and protection. "Where would I be without you to hold?" he had asked. She hadn't answered. She hadn't had an answer to give. He was Jack; he would always be fine. Didn't he know that? It never occurred to her that meeting her had changed him, and that staying with her had changed him even more.

She drifted off again. When she woke up the sky was a deep blue. Dawn was approaching. A cool breeze blew in from the window. Jack's fingertips moved lightly across her back. She lifted her head and kissed his jaw. "Good morning," he whispered with a grin. "Feel better?" She kissed his cheek and returned the grin. "I do," she said. He watched silently as she climbed onto him, straddling his hips. She rested her hands on his bare chest and nodded to the question in his eyes.

Rose shivered under his gaze. She didn't believe any other man could touch without using their hands the way he did. He slowly moved a hand up her thigh. "I love you in that," he said. She leaned forward and kissed him; her hair brushed his face. His hands encircled her hips. She kissed him again, hungrily. His breathing quickened. She smiled as she felt him grow hard against her. She looked into his eyes. "Do you want me?"

He nodded.

She pressed herself closer. "Tell me," she said. She let out a soft moan as his lips found her neck. "Jack…."

"I want you." He moved lower, kissing her breasts through the thin fabric. "I want you now," he said, pulling the gown over her head and tossing it aside. He pulled her to him, taking her breast into his mouth. She twisted her fingers into his hair. Her face felt hot; she struggled to breathe. It was too much and yet not enough all at once.

He rolled her onto her back. She wrapped her arms around him, keeping him close. He kissed her deeply. One hand held her, the other slipped between her legs. Slowly, he stroked her, touching her in all the ways and places she liked. He knew her body as well as he knew his own. He knew how to make her shiver, sigh, and cry out; he could make her tremble in his hands. In some ways, that was better than anything else.

He kept trying to pain their lovemaking, but it never turned out right. The paintings were good, but something was always missing. The courting and sparking of their relationship wasn't there.

But it was now.

…

They lay in a warm haze. They held each other, their hearts pressed together. They did so many things alone, even when the other was in the same room. They each went places the other could never quite reach, in themselves, in their art. And that was all right. They always came back together.

Golden sunlight streamed across them. Soon they would have to get up, but not yet. "Marry me?" Jack asked quietly. Rose kissed his temple. "No," she said.


End file.
